


selfdestruction

by orphan_account



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-17
Updated: 2012-03-17
Packaged: 2017-11-02 02:30:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/364011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>one-sided frank/gerard</p><p>he wants him, but not when he's like this</p>
            </blockquote>





	selfdestruction

There’s nothing on but infomercials, but I flip through the channels anyway. We didn’t pay for porn and the hotel didn’t offer movies, so I’m stuck with basic cable. It’s all white noise to me now, though. Every so often, I would glance nervously at my cell phone, perched on the arm of the couch, hoping and praying for a little buzz. He was out again, being self-destructive as usual. I wanted him home; safe. I leaned back into the cushion and lazily clicked through the channels again. Chances are, he would come home wasted with some girl and I would have to trudge back down to the lobby until he was done, so I could curl up on one of the chairs and mope in humiliation, thrown out of the room like a dog punished for pissing all over the carpet. That’s all I was, though, the third-wheel friend just taking up all of his fucking space until he needed someone to cry to.

I looked at my phone again, starting to feel sick. It was jealousy, I guess. Not of him, but the girls. Nameless, faceless girls who we’d all forget in the morning. That’s what he wanted. Despite me, the loyal fucking Prince Charming, willing to bend to every beck and goddamn call, I wasn’t with his affections. The feeling was never mutual.

He never got the fucking butterflies like I did. His palms didn’t sweat, his pupils didn’t dilate, and he never had to constantly fear rejection. He didn’t have to stay silent, gnaw on his lips until they bled, run out of air because his lungs were too fucking constricted to fill up with every rattling breath he took. He didn’t love me.

I loved him.

There was a scraping noise at the door, like someone was struggling to swipe the room key through the slot. After a few seconds, there was a click, and the door slowly creaked open. He stumbled through the doorframe, and I swear to god I could smell him before I saw him. His thick, black hair was plastered to his forehead and both sides of his face with grease and sweat, and his cheeks were flushed red, a drunken blush creeping across his upturned little nose and pudgy cheekbones. He looked like a distressed, oily piglet. He was alone, though.

“I was talking to, talking to this girl, right?” he slurred, slamming the door shut behind him. Swaying dangerously, he wobbled over to where I sat and plopped down on the cushion beside me. “And she told me she didn’t wanna... wanna go home with me. I say ‘Do you even know who I am?’ and you know what she says back?” He didn’t even give me time to respond. “She says ‘I don’t know, fat Dracula?’”

As he mumbled on, I locked my fingers together and wrung them nervously on my lap. I knew he was drunk, but he didn’t look right.

“Frankie, baby,“ he whined, burying his face into my shoulder. He fucking reeked like a wet dog’s armpit or something, but I still put a comforting arm around him anyway. “I just wanna get some love and feel good. Don’t you wanna feel good, too?” Clumsily, his hand brushed against my leg, trailing his fingers up to the inside of my thighs. A lump raised in my throat and I swallowed hard. How fucking convenient. He gets rejected and comes crawling (almost literally) to me.

“Hey, knock it off,” I warned. Swatting away his grabbing hands, I tried to squeeze his shoulder in an attempt to calm him down. This whole situation was fucked. There he was, throwing himself at me but all I could do was push him back. “Go lay down or something. You're wasted.”

“No, no no no,” he grumbled, pushing me over onto my back. “I'm fine. I'm fine and I just wanna love you. Let me love you just a little bit.” He obviously had no idea what was going on or what he was even doing. I was just another girl at the party. After pinning me down against the couch and straddling my hips, he leaned in uncomfortably close. I could taste the alcohol on his breath and the sweat clinging to his clothes. In a last-ditch effort, I wriggled around in protest and accidentally grazed my leg against his pelvis, feeling an unfamiliar stiffness. He was hard. Fuck it, I thought as I craned my neck up to kiss him. I'm not letting this chance slip away. Too bad it wasn't for me.

He tasted terrible and didn't hesitate to cram his tongue into my mouth, letting go of my shoulders and sliding his hands beneath the hem of my shirt- clearly searching for tits. My breath hitched as he tweaked my nipples with both hands, rolling and kneading them between his warm fingers. It was all too slow and too fucking clumsy. I couldn't get hard. Nothing felt right at all. My eyes began to water as he began to struggle with my belt. I was going to fucking cry.

“Gee, can you stop?” I whined, trying to roll him off of me, but he was bigger than me. Heavier. “Come on, just stop. Go to bed.”

I don't want you like this.

“M'fine,” he protested, trying to pull down my jeans. I kicked him off, though, and he tumbled off the side of the couch onto his ass. He suddenly looked even worse than he did before. “Gonna fuckin' puke.”

I yelped and hopped back on the couch as he threw up, narrowly avoiding me and the couch but splattering all over across the hotel room carpet. Thank god this wasn't his room at home. He doubled over and held his stomach before retching again, finally resting his cheek against the couch cushion when he was done.

“You okay?” I asked softly, not moving off of my spot. He shook his head and burrowed his face into the cushion, so I leaned over and gently ran my fingers through his greasy hair. “Let's get you all cleaned up, alright? You, you need to go to bed.”

After letting him sit there for a few minutes, I inched off of the couch and stepped over his puddle of vomit, making my way to the bathroom and grabbing one of the fresh, white towels. He watched me hazily as I tried to scrub up the mess. It stank to high fucking heaven, but I cleaned it the best I could. A dark, wet stain remained, but I at least managed to get the bulk of it.

“Thanks,” he murmured, muffled by the fabric of the cushion. I hoisted him up and let him lean on my shoulder as we both stumbled to the bed. He flopped down onto his side and I stretched out next to him. There was no fucking way he'd remember this in the morning. The next day would probably begin as every other one did, he wakes up with a hangover and just sits around while I nurse his sickly ass until he's better. And he doesn't thank me. There's that, too. I wrapped my arms around his waist and pulled him in closer to me, smelling his stench of sweat, booze, and barf.

I didn't really care, though. I was just thankful to hold him.


End file.
